


what we love

by impossibletruths



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Multi, One Shot Collection, rarepair week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one shots for Critical Role Rarepair Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Non-Romantic Pairing

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as the week progresses.

_Springtime_

She sits with her back pressed against sun-warmed bark, fingers plucking flowers out of the air and letting them drift down onto the ground beneath her, the springtime air cool on her bare arms. The tree behind her shifts and sighs, stretching awake from a long winter’s slumber.

Keyleth smiles.

“Hey old friend.”

_Hey Kiki._

“How you doing? How have things been?”

 _Been real good._ The Sun Tree hums with life, not a sound but rather a feeling, vibrations in their magical connections. Keyleth breathes it in deep. She has always loved the spring.

“Y’know, I never thought I’d have a tree for a friend,” she says, tilting her head back to rest against the trunk. The Sun Tree shifts behind her, boughs creaking.

_I’m no regular tree._

“I know,” Keyleth giggles. “But still. It’s nice. You’ll still be here.”

_That sounds kinda sad, Kiki._

It kinda is, but Keyleth shakes that away. Spring is new life and new beginnings. “I just mean we’ll get to see each other for a long time.”

 _I’m not goin’ anywhere_.

“I probably am,” Keyleth laughs. “But I’ll put down roots too, I suppose. Eventually.”

 _It’s not hard to be a tree_ , the Sun Tree tells her. _Gotta keep thinkin’ bout the sun, Kiki. It’s up there, just gotta reach for it._

“I will, old friend.”

 _Atta girl, boo. Atta girl_.

The Sun Tree sighs at her back, brimming with new life, and Keyleth lets herself relax as it washes over her, soothing and calm. The Sun Tree was planted long before she got here, and will stand tall long after she is gone; even her many years are little more than a blip along its lengthy lifespan. She finds the thought surprisingly refreshing.

The breeze picks up, heavy with the sweet smell of new growth and fresh earth, and scatters the flowers she has been crafting, picking them up to whirl around the town square.

Yes. Keyleth quite likes the spring.


	2. Day Two: F/F

_Faith_

“Do you think he’ll find it in there?”

“What?”

“Whatever he’s looking for.”

She and Pike sit side by side, backs against the wall, staring at the staircase that vanishes up into the heart of the temple. Vax is somewhere up there, out of sight and alone. He has only just left––it has been no time at all, barely a minute––but Keyleth cannot sit still. Her fingers twist at the fabric of her skirt, caught somewhere between anxious and impatient. This place puts her teeth on edge––the silence, the emptiness, the cold, the buzz of power that makes her head thrum and her skin prickle.

Pike does not seem uncomfortable. Pike sits tailor-style at her side, gaze fixed on the staircase. She stays quiet for a moment, considering.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “It’s his choice to look. Sometimes that’s more important than what you find.”

Keyleth nods a little and lets the silence stretch. That is not hard to do; the Raven’s Crest is eerily quiet. Sound should echo off so much stone and glass, she thinks, but instead the walls swallow everything. Even the sound of their breathing seems soft and far away.

It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Pike.”

“Yes, Keyleth?”

No, she doesn’t want to ask. It’s a stupid question anyways.

“Never mind.”

“Alright.”

Two minutes. Is he speaking with her? That’s what gods do, right? Speak with their followers? Is he one of her followers now? She has a hard time imaging Vax following anybody, impatient trickster that he is. In another time and place she might find that amusing. Here and now it only serves as a marker of how much her friend has changed. She plucks at a thread on her skirt and tries not to think of it.

Pike shifts slightly at her side, armor jostling, and the empty halls swallow the sound.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

Keyleth starts. “Huh?”

“All this quiet.” Pike shares a smile with her, conspiratorial. “It’s a little unsettling.”

“I don’t really like it,” Keyleth admits. Pike holds out her hand, an offer. Keyleth grasps it with a desperate sort of gratitude. The building is too big around them; she needs this anchor.

“It’ll be alright,” Pike promises, as if it’s a certainty, as if it’s a truth. Keyleth holds her hand a little tighter.

“How can you know?”

Pike press a fist against her breastplate, just below where her holy symbol rests. “I feel it, here.”

Ah, right. The belief of a cleric. “I wish I had your faith,” Keyleth says, slightly bitter but mostly just tired. Pike gives her hand a small squeeze.

“I know,” she says gently, and her voice rings out in the silence for a moment, soft and calm and backed with iron. The temple struggles to stifle it. “It’s alright. You’ll find it.”

“What if I don’t?” It’s a constant fear, one that circles round and round and round her head until she is dizzy with it. What if everyone is wrong, and she never figures it out, never finds balance, never lives up to what everyone expects from her? What if she’s destined to be bitter and not-enough and alone her whole life?

“Then I will have faith for both of us,” Pike tells her, as if it’s that simple, and she says it with such conviction that Keyleth can’t help but believe her. She relaxes almost without meaning to, breath coming a little easier, the floor more solid beneath her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and the sentiment is so big it overwhelms her. She is glad to have Pike here at the temple, yes, but also glad she is here with the group again, and still here after the glabrezu, and here in the first place. None of them knew how lucky they were when she stumbled across them while searching for Grog. Keyleth doesn’t know what she would do without her. What any of them would do.

“So am I,” says Pike, and her sentiment is bigger than her words too, larger and deeper and also clear and simple. Pike has always been awash in contradictions––cleric and warrior, voice of reason and lover of mischief, outstretched hand and iron shield.

And safe. Beneath, behind, above, around all that, Pike carries with her a safety that Keyleth desperately craves. That she would offer even a morsel of that means more to Keyleth than she will ever be able to put into words. But Pike has always been good at understanding what they don’t say, and she squeezes Keyleth’s hand with a gentle smile.

“Thank you,” Keyleth murmurs. Pike laughs like a bell––bright and echoing and not even the arching, empty halls of the temple can steal the sound away––and leans her head against the druid’s shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Keyleth.”

They sit there at the base of the staircase, hand in hand, all alone in the sweeping, silent expanse of the Raven’s Crest, and wait for Vax to return.


	3. Day Three: M/M

_Purpose_

He misses the city. It aches, sometimes like the twinge of an old wound and sometimes like a missing limb. He misses the wide boulevards, the myriad sounds and smells of the districts, the movement of the crowd. He misses the solid stone walls, and the trek across the green field to Emon proper, and feeling needed.

He especially misses feeling needed.

Not that Whitestone is bad, of course. There’s nothing wrong with the woods, or the mountains, or the snow. Nothing wrong with the huddled masses who have only just broken free, and still tread lightly around their own homes. Nothing wrong with the looming castle up the mountain.

But it’s not the same.

There are no keeps to guard, no fights to break up. The people here are still too uneasy to make use of a guard, and anyways. He’s a refugee, technically, not an officer of the law. He’s a man of principles, and his word, but he’s also a man of action. 

Right now, he misses the action.

And yes, repairing buildings and preparing for the spring’s planting are worthwhile endeavors, and he will do all he can to pull his weight, but still. It’s not exactly his thing. Being a refugee is like an itch he can’t scratch; he grows tired and impatient of sitting in the tavern and patching houses and joining the occasional hunting party. He misses Greyskull, and his (old) employers. At least things were always interesting.

And then a man shows up at his table in the tavern one night, a looming shade, and he might be frightened but he recognizes the cut of the man’s robe, a style not often seen this side of the Lucidian Ocean.

“Are you Jarett Howarth?” asks the man. 

He sits a little straighter, curiosity piqued. “I have been called that from time to time, yes.”

“A mutual friend suggested I might employ your services. May I sit?”

“Be my guest,” he invites, and the man––tall, with dark skin and curling hair and a neatly braided goatee––settles himself opposite him.

“Shaun Gilmore,” the man introduces himself. “I hear you work for Vox Machina.”

“I did.”

“They speak highly of you. I could use the help of someone so skilled.”

He watches as the man––Gilmore, yes, he has heard the name before––gives him a once-over, eyes trailing along the line of his arms where they lean on the table, the open collar of his shirt. He sees the appreciative slant of the man’s mouth.

And, well, if his eyes wander as well––if they take in the clean line of the man’s cheekbones, the thick waves of his hair, the gold around his neck and the way the fabric of his robes drapes over his shoulders––who is to blame him? He knows he has good taste.

“And I have heard of you. They say you run a fine business.”

“Ran, I’m afraid,” says Gilmore. “It is, like the rest of Emon, little more than rubble now.”

Jarett hears the disappointment in his voice, and signals a passing barmaid. “It is a tragedy, no? To lose a business.”

“To lose a city,” sighs Gilmore, and Jarett nods in agreement. “I’m happy to be alive, of course, but all the same…”

“It is a little quiet here, yes.”

Gilmore, Jarett discovers, smiles with his eyes first and mouth second. “It doesn’t really jingle my jangles.”

The barmaid returns with a drink, and Jarett passes it to the man, and raises his own, half-empty glass.

“I will drink to that, my friend.”

“To home,” says Gilmore.

“To home.”

The liquor in Whitestone is either incredibly fine, squirreled away for years and only recently brought up, or utter shit. Tonight’s fare is the shit variety. Jarett doesn’t mind; he has had worse.

He is impressed, however, that Gilmore drinks without making a face.

“So,” says Jarett. “I believe you had a proposition for me?”

Gilmore’s eyes smile again. “Right to business then. A man after my own heart.”

Jarett leans forward. The man smells of spices, the heady smell of his childhood, and he breaths it deep. “I prefer to do the business first, so the drinking might come easier.”

“A wise attitude,” says Gilmore, leaning in to mirror his position, arms folded across the table. The rings on his fingers glint in the candlelight, glowing against his dark skin. Jarett resolutely keeps his eyes on the man’s face. Business, then pleasure.

“The job?” he prompts. Gilmore glances around, but the folk in the tavern pay little mind to the two men sitting at an out-of-the-way table.

“I’m afraid I can’t say much out here, but if you’d care to accompany me to somewhere more private, I’d love to go over the details.”

Jarett likes the sound of that. “I will follow you, then,” he agrees easily, and lets the man lead him out of the tavern and down the street to his home, where Jarett learns of a temple beneath the city, and an unknown magic, and danger. He must admit his surprise at the spinning orb of death; but then, when have his employers ever done anything by half measures.

“You’ll start tomorrow then?” Gilmore asks hours later, when business is long-since concluded and they have had tea, and coffee, and a far more wine than is strictly appropriate for business deals.

“It will be my pleasure,” Jarett tells him with the sketch of a bow, the world buzzing comfortably around him. “I will see you in the morning.”

“I look forward to it.”

Whitestone is no Emon, of course. It is still not _home_. But here is something to do. Here is something for which he is needed. Perhaps his stay will not be so dreadfully boring as he thinks.

And if the last thing he thinks about before he collapses into bed for the night is the well-dressed, well-spoken businessman of whom his old employers spoke so highly, well, who can blame him? He has eyes, and good taste. The world may have fallen to pieces and be under siege by ancient dragons, but one must always be ready to take advantage of life’s happy coincidences.

He certainly intends to.


	4. Day Four: Fluff

_Thunder_

A flash of lightning cracks across the sky, daylight-bright, and Vax startles awake at the crash of thunder that echoes as the light fades, a booming roar loud enough to shake the building. He sits bolt upright, momentarily disoriented; this is not Scanlan’s mansion, this is not Whitestone, this is not Greyskull, he does not know this place, he cannot get his bearings––

Something––someone––shifts next to him on the bed, a familiar shock of pale hair poking out from the meagre, thin blanket, and the sight knocks his breath back into him, and he remembers.

This is the shitty inn in the middle of nowhere they have sheltered at. They’d have foregone it altogether, but after the day’s events Scanlan could not call forth his mansion, and with the storm rolling in just after sunset they agreed that a shit roof was better than none. Which turned out to be the right choice; the skies opened up and left them soaked through by the time they reached the lone building. 

But that was hours ago. It must be near midnight now, and the storm still rages.

Lightning flashes among the clouds again, turning the slice of sky visible out the narrow a pale lavender, and thunder cracks overtop it. Vax jumps, and swears quietly. He has never liked storms, though his childhood terror has since faded into a sentiment somewhere between distaste and anxiety. Rain is all well and good, and he can appreciate the majesty and power of the summer thunderstorms; he merely prefers to do it from the safety of a nice, solid building somewhere. Not, say, the attic of a third-rate inn in the middle of nowhere.

Percy shifts next to him again, and Vax freezes, doing his best not to wake the man. Gods know he gets little enough sleep as it is; the last thing Vax wants to do is interrupt the few hours of rest he manages.

But then thunder rumbles out, echo shaking the roof above him, and Vax jumps a little, swearing again. Percy stirs.

“Vax?” His head rises slightly, hair a mess. He squints up at the rogue. “What’sit?” 

“It’s just the storm,” Vax says, voice low and (he hopes) soothing. “Go back to sleep.”

Lightning cracks across the sky, and Vax flinches slightly, and Percy’s head rises farther up the pillow. He props himself up on one elbow.

“Is everything alright?”

“Course. Why wouldn’t it be.”

Percy eyes him, still squinting. His eyesight really is atrocious. Vax glances at him, and then back at the window. Water drips off the sill.

“Is it the storm?”

Vax turns his attention back to the man. “What?”

Percy’s head tilts towards the window as another bolt of lightning strikes down, a sharp line of branching energy from earth to sky, and thunder booms out seconds later. Vax shivers.

“It’s just thunder, Vax.”

“I am well aware of that, Percival,” Vax snaps back. Percy sighs and shifts over a little.

“Come here,” the man says, lifting their measly blanket. “Come on, lie back down. You’re alright.”

Vax hesitates for a moment, but the air is cold against his bare torso and he’s tired, and Percy is warm and inviting and staring at him with that slightly exasperated smile, eyebrows raised, and Vax sighs and lies down so the man can wrap an arm around his waist and hold him tight.

“It’s only a storm,” Percy murmurs at his ear. “It will pass.”

“Most storms do,” Vax mutters into the dark, and Percy chuckles against his ear.

“Go back to sleep, Vax,” he says, and Vax lets his eyes close. The thunder still rocks the building, sending dust scattering from the ceiling and shaking the glass pane of the window, but with Percy curled around him it feels far away, insignificant. The man behind him is far more real––the huff of his breath against Vax’s neck, his arm heavy over his waist, his legs tangling with Vax’s own. The warmth of him, as if he carries his forge within him, warding off the chill of the storm. Vax sinks into that warmth now, into that safety. The storm cannot touch him here.

 It is only a storm, after all. It will pass.

Most do.


	5. Day Five: Angst

_Hope_

She knew, of course. How long has Pike been dancing around it? It feels like forever, an eternity of hints and teases and uncertainties, and Keyleth understands that, really, she does. She understands wanting to hide one’s heart, wanting certainty. She understands loving someone you aren’t sure loves you back.

She just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.

“I’m happy for you,” she says, when Pike come to her with the news, glowing. She kneels so they might speak face-to-face, and Pike takes Keyleth’s hands, fingers small and warm and calloused from the grip on her mace and shield, from fighting, from protecting her family. “You deserve a happy ending.”

“It’s just all so much,” Pike laughs. “And I never thought–– I guess I’m just really lucky, huh?”

“Or maybe you’re just finally seeing what we’ve always seen. How wonderful you are.” Keyleth smiles, or tries to smile at least. “So when’s the wedding?” It’s a joke, of course, but it comes out too honest, stilted. Pike, brimming with joy so bright Keyleth can almost taste it, doesn’t notice her stumbling tongue. She has always had trouble speaking, this awkwardness is no different from any other.

“Thank you, Keyleth,” the woman says, her hands tight around Keyleth’s own. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Your encouragement––” 

“Oh, yeah, I guess. It’s just like you said. Sometimes you gotta, y’know, just go for it.“

“You should take your own advice.”

“Yeah.” It’s too late, of course. Too late now. And Keyleth is happy for her, she is, it’s just––

It’s stupid, but she had hoped anyways, with a quiet spark of excitement every time Pike mentioned it. A little thrum in her chest that said _maybe maybe maybe_. It’s all seems so silly now, so ridiculous. Of course it wasn’t her. Of course it never would be.

It must read on her face, because Pike’s light dims lightly, and Keyleth feels wretched for doing anything to dampen her spirits, not when she is so happy and free.

“Keyleth? Are you alright?”

“Yeah I’m great!” She trips over her words in her hurry to get them out. “I’m really happy for you! I’m totally fine!”

Pike’s head tilts. “Are you? Or, are you pretending you’re happy so everyone else can be okay?”

Keyleth feels her face betray her, feels her eyes go wide, caught out on the lie. “I don’t––” she tries, but she stutters to a stop. Pike looks at her, too knowing and completely oblivious, and it cuts through her like a knife.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Pike says, hands warm and dry and strong. “It’s okay to be honest with people. Don’t be afraid. Sometimes it turns out really well.” Her smile creeps back, face brightening, and Keyleth nods and tries a smile, for her sake.

“Okay, Pike.”

“Just try for me, okay?”

For Pike? Anything.

“Alright,” she promises. Pike’s smile widens, and she squeezes Keyleth’s hands one last time before letting go. She glances around behind her, where Keyleth knows the one who stole her heart waits.

“It will be okay,” Pike promises. Keyleth nods, puts on a strong face.

“Oh, wait,” she says, remember why she sought the woman out in the first place. She concentrates for a moment, and draws flowers out of the air, bright yellow marigolds and pale tulips. She presses the bouquet into Pike’s hands. White and gold have always been good colors for the woman, and these flowers, crafted of diving magic, seem to glow against the blue of her tunic.

Pike accepts them with a soft, gentle, smile, fingers wrapping delicately around the stems. Marigolds for grief and white tulips for unrequited love, but Pike does not speak the language of the flowers. This is Keyleth’s secret, her silent goodbye.

“They’re beautiful,” says Pike. “Thank you, Keyleth.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Keyleth replies, giving her a little nudge. Towards happiness, Keyleth tells herself. Towards the future. What does it matter that she breaking Keyleth’s heart, if she’s happy? That’s what matters.

She just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.


	6. Day Six: Alternate Universe

_Advice_

The Slayer’s Take Coffee House, Brewery & Restaurant has something of a reputation for press-ganging community members into volunteering at their twice yearly charity drives. Scanlan swears up and down he didn’t know it was today––and if he had he would have stayed far, far away––but he still somehow manages to get not only himself but also poor Vex and innocent Percy (and, most hilariously, Grog) roped into the chaos. The December Charity Recipient is a non-profit dedicated to raising money for impoverished communities in extreme climates, which, great, yeah, he supports the little guy, but he’s supposed to be at a gig in like, two hours and doesn’t have _time_  for this.

But someone has handed him a red shirt with the establishment’s logo on the front and VOLUNTEER printed in block letters across the back and shoved a stack of papers into his hands and now he and his friends (or fellow victims; however you want to look at it) are milling around in the middle of a room packed with other people in red shirts who look varying levels of miserable.

So Sclanlan texts his old band and tells them to go on without him and resigns himself to his fate. Dammit.

The catch of the STCHB&R (what a terrible acronym who came up with that) fundraiser is that, of course, volunteers cannot wander around on their own. Oh no. They must be in _groups_ , under the watchful eye of Slayer’s Take employees, and Scanlan gets not wanting to let strangers wander around your establishment, sure, but maybe you just shouldn’t force them to volunteer for you in the first place? Just a thought.

But no, they _must_  have a supervisor, so when the politely terrifying woman who owns the establishment sticks them together with a pair of women, he doesn’t argue. Or maybe it’s because the owner looks like she could bench press Scanlan without breaking a sweat. One of the two.

One of the pair they’ve been grouped with is a perfect civil––and a little frightening, but in a sort of hot way––woman who introduces herself as Zahra and seems to hit it off with Vex. Or maybe just wants to hit Vex. Or is hitting on her? it’s hard to tell.

The other is. Well. Scanlan would say excitable, if he were feeling charitable (ha, because it’s a charity, get it? what can he say, he’s a wordsmith), but overzealous probably fits her better. Bumbling? Obnoxious? She bounces up to them with a clipboard in hand, shirt a vibrant green.

She is also, of course, their volunteer supervisor while they do... whatever they were assigned to do. Something involving the CEO of the recipient organization; Scanlan wasn’t really paying attention.

More than anything, though, the woman is _loud_. Scanlan has never heard this much noise coming from one person, and that’s saying something cause he’s, well, Scanlan.

“Hi guys! I’m Lyra, I work here, but today I’m a volunteer. Well, I’m still working here but I’m not getting paid because it would be overtime and Vanessa’s a little short-changed at the moment, but that’s fine! I’m working my way up the ranks to be a real barista but right now I mostly just organize Vanessa’s stuff. We have a connection. She’s probably grooming me to be her successor, since she and Murtin don’t have any kids, which is kind of sad but it’s okay because we’ll all one big family here at the Slayer’s Take Coffee House, Brewery & Restaurant. Anyways since I work here I’m overseeing this group so just listen to what I say and remember I’m the leader.”

“Darling,” says frighteningly collected Zahra, “can you just tell us what we’re supposed to be doing?”

“Oh, right. Well––”

It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion––horrifying, but also fascinating, and Scanlan can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her as she just keeps talking. About _everything_. Especially a guy, her ex. Or maybe they’re on-again-off-again? (Or, he starts to think as Lyra tells them about her _darling Aldor_  while they wait more and more miserably in the positively arctic back lot for the CEO to arrive, she’s a stalker and Aldor has the right idea.)

“Maybe you should let the guy go,” Scanlan says when she pauses for breath, his teeth chattering. “Y’know, go out, find someone else, have some new experiences?”

“Oh, are you offering? That’s so kind of you!”

"Hey, baby, I’ll try anything once,” Scanlan grins (because he will, Grog has so many stories he could tell). At his side, Vex makes a retching sound.

“Wow, what a good guy. You know I might just take you up on that. I mean, you’re a little shorter than me which is kind of weird cause Aldor is just so tall––”

“I make it work,” Scanlan says. Grog laughs behind him.

“Yeah he does,” the man rumbles. The bastard is out here in a sweatshirt and doesn’t seem to feel the snow around them, because apparently he’s a freak of nature, though he says it’s just cause he’s from the north. Won’t say where north. Just, north.

“Oh, well I hear new experiences are vital to expanding horizons and new information might give me another way to woo Aldor. What time do you get off?”

It’s such low-hanging fruit. “Any time, baby,” he says, and he can actually hear Percy roll his eyes. Incredible. “But my shift is over at seven.”

“What a coincidence, mine too! Hey, maybe you can teach me something about wooing people I think I could really use some pointers.”

“I’ll rock your world,” Scanlan promises.

“Jesus, Scanlan, could you not?” asks Vex.

“Hey, I’m a gentleman. I’ll buy her a drink first.”

“Is that standard wooing policy? I mean, sometimes I buy drinks _from_  Aldor since he works here but maybe next time I should buy a drink _for_  him...”

“We’re gonna have a talk,” Scanlan promises, “about how to hook up with people. It’s a lost art.”

“You’re so crude,” sighs Vex, but at that point a sleek-looking limo pulls up and a towering pair of bodyguards open the back door so an old, crotchety white guy who probably has more money than he knows what to do with can get out of the car. Introductions go... poorly, and the man does his best to pick a fight with them, but they manage to get him inside, and befriend his overworked guards, and Vanessa quietly thanks them for dealing with the guy for her (and, most importantly, _pays them_  and Scanlan’s opinion of her goes up like, two dozen notches).

And then, finally, seven pm rolls around and they are all blessedly free.

Percy and Grog take off together, complaining, and Vex gives Scanlan the dirtiest look when he hooks one arm around Lyra’s (as if he can’t see her leave with terrifying-but-in-a-hot-way Zahra, the hypocrite).

They go to the bar, where Scanlan lays out all the best ways to get a piece of ass, and at the end of the night Lyra thanks him profusely and then says she can’t possibly sleep with him after he’s been such a good friend and that would be disingenuous and also he really is kind of short and that’s not really doing it for her. She thanks him for the drinks, and leaves arm-in-arm with a weedy-looking guy who looks like he may be missing an arm? It’s hard to tell from this angle.

Scanlan, for his part, goes home alone.

Goddammit.


	7. Day Seven: Free For All

_Fealty_

_My champion_ , she names him, and Vax shivers. She stands before him, goddess and woman both, and a fire burns bright in him, and he calls it fate, and faith, and it is more than that.

(But what is love, if not faith?)

 _My champion_ , she says, slipping into his dreams, dressed in feathers and robes and ribbons and nothing, and he kneels to her, head bowed until she tucks her fingers beneath his chin, cold and bone-pale, and she smiles at the hope in his eyes.

Some nights she watches from the shadows, silent, dark eyes following him through daydream and nightmare alike.

Some nights she speaks with him, long hours of questioning conversation, and he wakes without memory of her words but buoyed by them nonetheless. 

Some nights she whispers secrets, and in the mornings he slips away, knowing what he must do; such is the burden of champion.

“Are you alright, though?” Vex asks, tentative and unsure, and he tells her yes, of course he is, he’s always alright, but he means it this time. She does not believe him; she stares when she thinks he isn’t looking, watches as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It will not. This blood-and-feathers pact has been sealed, and falling is not so different from flying; she has given him wings and freedom, and in return he falls at her feet, tethers himself to her. But it is still his choice.

 _My champion_ , she says, and he comes undone. She pulls him apart at his seams and remakes him in her image, and it is change but it is also healing. His pieces fit together when she finishes with him, old edges rounded off and given meaning, and afterwards she tucks her fingers beneath his chin and looks down at him, sometimes masked and sometimes dressed in her mortal face, and she is so sad, but she smiles at him anyways, and a tightness in his chest eases.

“Is it what you wanted?” Keyleth asks, frightened but trying to understand, and Vax recognizes her fear, and knows her hesitancy, and he laughs.

“It is not what I wanted,” he tells her, honest as the night is long. “But it’s alright. It’s good.”

She doesn’t understand. She thinks him grasping wildly for purpose, thinks him desperate and drowning, and he does not fault her for it. Not so long ago the bottom fell out of their world and they fell, and fell, and fell, and she is still falling. But he has wings now, and a bird’s sense of true north.

It is not a place, his true north. It is a newfound peace, and a raven-and-ivory goddess, and he smiles at Keyleth and tells her he’s okay, really. She watches him, eyes dark with worry, as he keeps pace with her as she tumbles into the abyss; he is safe in the knowledge that he might escape it, if he choses.

One day, she might understand. He hopes she will understand. Falling and flying look similar at first; you must take the leap before any wings might catch you.

 _My champion_ , she says, angry and terrible, stripping everything from him, his name and his mind and his self, and he begs her forgiveness, on his knees with his head bowed, insignificant in the shadow of her might. But death can be kind, too; death can be a mercy, and she holds him in the palm of her hand high above her tapestry of souls and brushes a kiss against his brow and tucks one curving finger beneath his chin and smiles down at him, ancient and tired and almost-fond. _Mortals can achieve great things. Will you achieve greatness for my, my champion?_

 _I will try_ , he swears, and she laughs, and it sounds like the cawing of ravens, and he wakes alone, a single feather on his pillow.

“Does she love you?” he asks Pike, who has no question for him, because the woman understands what it means to swear your life to a god. 

Once upon a time, Vax had thought to follow in her footsteps, had thought their cleric’s goddess of redemption might shelter a thief and assassin such as him, one more drifter washed up on better shores, but fate has picked a different path for him, and he walks it now with his back straight and his decision made.

Sometimes, though, he wonders.

“Yes,” says Pike, honest as the day is bright. “I’m not sure it would work if she didn’t.”

“And do you love her?”

“More than anything.” Pike says, and looks at him, head cocked, eyes crystalline blue. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t think Vex would understand, or Keyleth, or anyone else, but Pike smiles, and nods, and says, “Alright then,” as if it is that easy.

Maybe it is.

 _My champion_ , she says, and she smiles, and Vax kneels at her feet and makes his choice, and takes a leap of faith, and flies.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [teammompike](http://teammompike.tumblr.com)


End file.
